Red Dead Revolution
by Shelbo
Summary: Red Harlow has killed Griffin, now he must leave or fear dire consequences. He decides to visit Hennigan's Stead to finally meet his father's estranged family. He will have to survive the wild west and meet a famed gunslinger and a certain orphan outlaw.
1. An Outlaw Going Home

New Austin 1889

Red Harlow looked the sheriff in his stony blue eyes as a bag containing about ten grand was offered to him. He had finally killed the dirty rat Griffin and avenged his pa. Now what was next? "It was never about the money." He muttered and grasped the halter of his bay stallion.

"Best be getting on, Red!" shouted the wounded black soldier known as Buff. He clinched his leg as red blood trickled out like a spring and made a crimson pool near his boots. "Gov'ment will be sendin' their boys after you."

With the grace of a true equestrian, Red swung into the saddle in a blink of an eye. Without a word (he never spoke much), he and his steed were off, riding at breakneck speed away from the late governor's manor. The blazing sun was setting low in the sky, but it was still radiant enough to cause the bounty hunters neck to be pink. New Austin was a large state situated in the southwest bordering Mexico. Brimstone was in the Northwest and his destination, Hennigen's Stead, was in the south, right across the river from Mexico.

Red couldn't understand why he had to leave Brimstone, but the sheriff, Annie, and Buff could stay. After all, they had shot as many men as he did, but Red took out the governor of New Austin. He was a "bad" man.

For many days Red Harlow road through deserts, prairies, mountains, and forests searching for the place his father Nate had grown up. Supposedly Nate had family members there that Red never met. They didn't take to kindly to Falling Star, Red's Native American mother. It was sad that after twenty-seven years, Red was finally going to meet them for the first time. If they were there that is.

Riding like mad thorough the state of West Elizabeth this time on a palomino Kentucky Saddler, Red found himself being robbed by a group of pick pockets around the ages of seventeen or so. The leader of them was obviously the tall lanky Scots boy with a six shooter. He had long shaggy black hair that fell to his shoulders and a face covered in cuts and nicks, not much unlike Red. "Hold up!" he said in a bold rough voice. _A smoker_, thought Red. "Sir! I'm to give you the choice: give me all the money you got in your pockets, or bite my bullets."

"I am not threatened by children," spat Red looking down over his horse at the youth. The boy nodded to another boy who was even rougher looking than his counterpart. The boy raised an old musket to the palomino and pulled the trigger. With a large _BANG!_ the horse fell to his knees, dead as a doornail. Dead as Griff.

Red was on the ground now, surrounded by these teenage boys and their ancient hand-me-down guns. These boys had to be from poverty. They all wore rags and they were begging with force. "Now, let's say you give me the money, mister," said the leader, stepping towards Red with his Colt 1873 six shooter. The bounty hunter hated to hurt children but these miscreants meant business, especially the one holding pistol to his head.

Harlow quickly drew his Scorpion revolver out of his holster and shot the boy with the musket who killed his horse. The bullet hit the kid right in the gonads and he fell with an "OH!" All the other rushed to escort the boy away from the scene…all but their leader who nervously put his revolver in the pocket of his ragged Levi Strauss Jeans.

"Who the hell are you?" the boy asked backing away from this strange man who had the "deadest eye" he'd ever seen.

"My name is Red Harlow. I'm from Brimstone. I came down to find my Uncle Ed's place in Hennigan's Stead. You know where that is, jackass?"

"No, I ain't a jackass. My name is John Marston," said the boy who pulled out the Colt. He didn't care how much older this "Red Harlow" was than him, no one talked to John Marston that way. Red simply shot the gun out of John's hand.

"JESUS!" shouted John while gripping the throbbing, bleeding hand.

"I can kill you now, but something tells me you know exactly where my destination is so you're just gonna have to stick with me. I doubt Musketdude and the rest of your posse will miss you." Red used some rope to tie Marston's hands together.

"I told you I don't know nothing about no Hennigan's Stead. I have always lived her in West Elizabeth. In the orphanage with the guy with the musket; that's Bill."

Red smirked as he brought a small donkey in dire need of horse pills out of a stall. Whether John Marston liked it or not, he and Red were going to be in Hennigan's Stead by sunset.


	2. Kids and Their Alcohol These Days

**AN: I have done tons and tons of research to make sure this story follows the games and actual history. I almost gave Farley an automobile. xD**

"Let me see your hand," Red said, after hitching his horse to a post outside a saloon in teeming Armadillo, the biggest city in the Cholla Springs region. He had ridden with this sullen kid for three hours not getting a single word out of him. John tried to shoot Red during the ride, but he dropped the six shooter, being a terrible rider.

John Marston's left hand had been terribly mutilated from the Scorpion's bullet. Black blood dried and made it look like his had been burnt. Burn. The sound of the word made Red's own hand tremble. "I'm sorry, John."

"You're damn right to be sorry!" the kid bellowed. "Second I can sneak away from you, you bastard…. I'm turning you in to the sheriff."

Red was starting to like this Marston guy in a weird way. Reminded him of himself at the age of fifteen. After all, they were both orphan and had to grow up and live by the gun, even if Marston was a lousy shot. "Hmm, good thing you'll not be leaving my sight. Now let's say we go inside the bar. Get some rest."

Marston swore under his breath while he hitched his lazy panting mule. Red swung open the doors to the newly built saloon. There were whores left and right, a bar, a pianist, and several men playing poker. Not unlike the saloon in Brimstone. Except it lacked one thing he would sorely miss: Annie Stoakes. The little minx and he had something special. She had saved his ass on many occasions. In some ways, she, Jack Swift, Buff, and poor dead Shadow Wolf were his only friends. He would have to see her again one day if the bounty on his head was forgotten.

Marston walked up to the counter with the airs of a prince and ordered the strongest whiskey they had. Snickering, the bartender let him have it. He knew this kid couldn't hold his alcohol. Not like any of the grown men of Armadillo. For the rest of the day, Marston was drunk and vomiting chunks all over the floor. Red decided to buy a safe house.

"Tell me where he is, dammit!"

Annie Stoakes's pretty face was struck heavily with the barrel of a Schofield revolver. A welt instantly grew wear the gun had made contact. It hurt like sin, but the rancher girl was way too strong to show some rotund law man any pain.

"I never met no Red Harlow, now you best get off my ranch, else Sheriff Bartlett will have you rotting in a jail cell!" she shouted, brown eyes full of fury.

The law man sniffed and let out a belly laugh. What a hick! He was lucky enough to have grown up in his mum and dad's manor in Westminster. The chubby man considered himself to be "sophisticated" although the West was getting to him. Years and years of whisky were obvious as his face was red, he was short of breath, and his middle had to be fifty inches. "Miss Stoakes, I am a government agent. I am above your silly little sheriff who is also being interrogated…just…like…you." He stuck the woman again.

"Mr. Farley! That will be enough!" A boy of fifteen with an Inquisitor rode up the path to the charred barn where Mr. Farley was holding Annie hostage. "My name is Kid Cougar and I am a deputy of Sheriff Bartlett. You told the lady, the sheriff, and the Negro you were only gonna ask them questions. Not hurt 'em."

"Piss off, you bugger. I have no time for young upstarts like you. Especially since only a week ago, you were in the infirmary after being shot up in the Battle Royale." Farley burped.

"That's it, fatass!" Kid snarled and held the gun to his adversary's head. "Get outta here. Go get you a drink, ya hear? Hell! Here's all my money. Go off and get fatter."

His piggy blue eyes shining with glee, Farley burped a thank-you and hurried off in his fancy new horse-drawn carriage. With a "yippee!" he was off and out of sight.

"Thank stars, Cougar." Annie said as Kid helped her off the ground. "Another minute in here he'd be shooting me."

"I was sent by Bartlett when his interrogator let slip that Mr. Farley was a dirty drunk. His interrogator didn't have the balls to do to the sheriff what he did to you. Farley may be a fat alcoholic, but he ain't someone you'd wanna mess with. He's the government's best shot."

Annie laughed, "Kid Cougar, how the HELL did an accidental outlaw like you become deputy?"

The young blonde boy ran a delicate hand through his curly hair. "Well, I am currently one of the only known people to survive a bullet from ol' Red."

"It was he who caused this mess," Annie muttered woefully. It was no secret that she had been very fond of Red. In fact, they shared a room together the night before they went to kill Griff.

"Red needs our help. I like the guy even if he done shot my left thumb off. Good thing I'm right handed."

"So what do you suppose we do?" Annie thought the kid was some little punk full of shit.

"I say we go get Red ourselves and take him to jail here."

"The hell would we do that for? He is a good guy!"

"Well, I meant we'd pretend to lock him up. We'd let him free after we convince the dumb citizens and the jackasses in the government that he is gone forever."

"That is such a dumb idea! Kid Cougar, where would we find our famed gunslinger? He may be in Mexico for all we know."

"Not so. Farley told Bartlett who told me that some man who fits Red's description was found in Blackwater. That's four days from here on horseback. But I think we should ride the train."

"I swear if this is some shit coming outta the beer you've been drinking, boy, I'll shove this here shotgun up your pubescent anus."


	3. A Normal Morning with Jackon D Farley

The sun rose and filled the cantina with light. Agent Farley was fast asleep on the piano bench at the saloon in Crooktail Pass, ten miles out of Brimstone. His large abdomen rose and fell with his breaths. In his grubby right hand, he held a bottle. A red headed whore had watched him sleep all night. She gently grabbed the hand with the bottle and held it up over Farley's head. He opened his blue eyes and gave her a sincere smile. "Well, it isn't often when you wake from a drunken stupor and see such an angel as you, sugar."

She wretched and slammed the bottle on his head. "Jackson Farley, you are a sorry son of a bitch!" She would know. She'd gone around the block with him a time or too. She would never admit it, but she felt a soft spot for this soft man. If he'd lose about fifty pounds, he'd be very attractive. The ladies at Crooktail Pass loved him.

Farley rubbed his thick brown locks, shaking the glass out of it. "Damn, woman! What did I do?"

The girl lifted her foot onto the bench, and kicked his head. "First, you never gave me the money to support our son last month. Second, every goddamn Friday morning I walk in here to do my shift and I see your good for nothin' self passed out on this piano."

"Wait! Betty…it's Betty right? Or are you Carlotta. NO! Carlotta was the curvaceous dame in Sepulcro."

The girl slapped him. "This is Regina, doofus! Regina Fordham!"

"Oh…ho."

She stomped, "We…have…a…son…named….ARCHER! ARCHER FORDHAM!"

"Ah. Yes, Archer. How is he? Rounding about twenty, right? No. You're the Crooktail Pass harlot. He's…..eight."

"Well, yeah you can remember that." Her hands were on her hips. "Listen, bastard, Mr. Scott will be in soon and he's tired of your fat ass being hungover in this fine establishment."

"Fuck me, establishment? More like bordello."

"Anyway," Regina was not bothered. "If'n you meet the wrong end of the deadest eye in Crooktail Pass's gun…."

"Look here, Jessica….I'm getting out of this damn place. I got…I got…I gotta find Rerharrowwww."

"Excuse me?"

"Ruuuuuudd Harlow."

"Haven't seen that cat in many moons. Thank stars, because they say he gunned down the guvner."

"That he did, Tammy."

"Before you leave, you needa give me my hundred."

"Your what?"

"Don't play dumb, Jackson Daniel Farley! We've been screwing around for fifteen years. You done got me preggers back a decade ago, but you got angry one night and took a coathanger to me. Then eight years ago out comes old Archer. You promised me you'd give me a hundred dollars a month to pay for that demon. You quit paying me three years ago."

"Huh, no wonder you look a bit emaciated. I bet Archer is half dead."

"I have had to work three clients a night. I used to work one. Now I get three times the money."

"Yeah, but that is sufficient for you and the brat?"

"Hell, Jackson," Regina shook her head. "Not every chap is as 'loaded' as you. Not every sonuvabitch what comes in here has a father who's an English lord."

"Fine," he stood up and straightened his French mustache. "Take this and buy a train to Blackwater. You know where my manor is. I'll send my butler, Grant, a telegraph saying you can have your hundred."

"Why do that? You gave me…." She didn't dare go farther. The drunken ass had accidently given her two grand, enough for her and Archer for quite a while. "Now, head out, mister. Mr. Scott is around the corner there."

* * *

A large black man lumbered into the saloon carrying a double-barrel shotgun around eleven-thirty at night the following day. He requested a scotch, but instead got beaten senseless by a young man named Landon Ricketts.


	4. In Which Landon Ricketts Escapes Prison

Landon Ricketts sat behind the iron bars of the biggest prison in the state of New Austin: Clearcreek. No convict ever escaped Clearcreek since its origin. This was on accord of its high walls with barbed wire on the top. Plus all the ex-Civil War fighters who moved to New Austin after the war went on to be lawmen, ranchers, or prison guards. If you didn't think the soldiers-cum-guards would shoot you if you ever put the smallest part of your big toe out of line, you had another thing coming.

Landon Ricketts was a well known bandit who was famed for his shooting ability. Although his near killing of Buff was hardly mentionable next to his other deeds, the guards still were highly frightened of this mysterious gunslinger. He was placed as the charge of Fenian, a large Irish-American guard with a taste for his ale. Fenian took every single weapon the drunken man had and locked it in a safe in the storage closet located in the desolate cellar. Of course, Landon put up a fight, but Fenian struck the man down easily. He got cocky, which was unwise. A sober Landon wouldn't be beaten by any man in the West.

"Ricketts," said Fenian walking to the bandit's cell one morning. "I heard from a man a few cells down that yew have a certain home-made weapon in your possession."

L.R. only sneered. As a young man, Landon was a very egotistical and racist man, which was what caused him to throttle the poor Buff. It was ironic, considering he later became a saint in the eyes of many Hispanics.

Fenian tried to break the other male's aloofness. "Mr. Ricketts, escape from this here prison is not possible. The walls are high, yew were blind folded when you were brought in so that yew couldn't make note of landmarks, and I would shoot yew down with this here gun." He lifted a Colt pistol.

"Look, O' Grady." The gun was put to Rickett's head.

"Yew racist piece o' trash."

Landon gnashed his rotten teeth, "I don't think any damn Dubliner can shoot me. Especially not some scrawny bozo with a bowler hat and a dinky kid gun."

"And what weapon do yew have, sir?" After all, Fenian had ever single gun that the police found on his passed out body in the saloon.

"Well, you damn bastards didn't check me in one spot…"

"You can't possible mean…"

Within a blink on an eye, Landon Ricketts whipped out a widowmaker from the crotch of his trousers and shot Fenian in the chest. Clutching his bony breast, the Irishman sunk to his knees and expired. Landon Ricketts was on the run. He tore through the hall ways of the prison, past cells and cells. Guards chased after him, but many met the bullets of the renegade's gun. In all, twenty men excluding Fenian were killed in the event.

A carriage rumbled through the desert carrying several Indian prisoners. Clearcreek was in the driver's sight. The Indians in the back of the vehicle were caught bothering the native whites of Brimstone an hour away. He would be glad to be rid of the hooligans.

"Be careful," the warden said as the driver unloaded the criminals in the yard. "A very dangerous man has gotten out of his cell and we have no clue where he got to."

"Hmm, misfortunate."

"Say," the warden said. "Would you mind taking this to the bank in Armadillo? I have to pay for the damages old Fenian did when he was drunk at their saloon. Damn Dubliner." He carried a heavy chest about six feet in length to the coach.

"Heavy." The driver loaded the case in the passenger's seats.

* * *

John Marston vomited all night and morning, but Red knew he couldn't stay long especially when word was starting to spread of the governor's death. He left the inn one morning to check on his horse in its stall when he saw his first wanted poster. His photograph was on it, and he was worth ten grand. He pulled a bandana over his nose and mouth to hide his features.

"We have to leave kid." John was flabbergasted. "I walked into the gunsmith's shop. He told me our destination is pretty close."

"Mr. Harlow, I dropped my gun on the way here," Marston blurted.

"Yeah, I went to the smith and got you this." He held out a widowmaker identical to his own. It shone in the light that was coming in. Gold and white. Marston later lost the gun in a train robbery, but up until then, it was his prized possession.

"Thanks."

"No problem, now let's get outta here." Red kicked the door of their room open and rushed down the stairs. He was rushing like a young colt; he was obviously stirred up. His eyes were a fire, and his face was tense as if deep in thought. Marston knew his captor was worried. But why? Was it the fact that he had stolen an orphan? No. No one gave a damn for John Marston's sorry ass aside from his doll back in Blackwater. Abigail. She'd be furious when he got back. If he ever did.

Running to the stalls like bedlamites, Red lost his bandana. Gasps filled the air. Here, in center of town, was the murder of the governor of New Austin, the most wanted ne'er-do-well in the United States of America.

* * *

The driver of the Clearcreek prison cab reached the bank at sundown long after Red's identity was given away. The driver drove as fast as possible with no breaks, all day yesterday and all day that day. There had to be bullions in the chest. It was weighty as sin. As soon as he reached his destination, he climbed out of the seat and urinated on the hitching post.

Unbeknown to him, the case opened without the help of anyone. The case had been empty of its precious gold, for a man was placed in its stead. The man was Landon Ricketts, free at last.


End file.
